Whiskey Lullaby
by Shiranui-of-Twilight
Summary: Oh, my gosh. My first story! Okay, so in which Alfred cheats on Arthur, Britain leaves, and becomes an alcholholic. The story is WAY better than the summary! I'm new at this, okay! Rated T for character death and malexmale


Whiskey Lullaby  
Author- Kylie Tackett  
Special Thanks to -Hidekaz Hamaruya

Author's Note: Hello, every person, cactus, unicorn and any other direct or indirect objects of Wonderland! This is my first ever FanFiction (that I've posted here, at least!), so please give me some slack! I had an epiphany one day after listening to Whikey Lullaby by Brad Paisley and Allison Krauss. Please enjoy, flames are used to heat my tea!

"When you get back, we'll start our family, alright?"  
America pulled Britain into a final goodbye hug. England was going back to war, and it deeply saddened the blonde male that his love had to leave him. But he would wait… forever if need be.  
"I'll come back, love. Don't you worry." Britain kissed the top of America's head. "And I'll be back before you know it, Alfred!"

England flashed one last smile, emerald eyes brimming with tears, and turned to leave. Alfred smiled, the sadness in his cerulean orbs clear. He stood on his toes, the old 50's bomber jacket he always wore swaying a little in the breeze, and waved as Britain jumped into his car.  
"I'll wait, Arthur! No matter how long it takes!"

_I'll wait, no matter how long it takes!_  
Finally, after seven long, trying years, Arthur was able to come home once again. Those parting words of Alfred's rang in his ears everyday since then, pushing him through the hardest of times because he knew Alfred would be home waiting for Arthur to return. Now, on the drive back through the old dirt road that led to their house, Arthur had never been so excited to see his sweet, sweet America. Oh, how much he had missed those shining sea-blue eyes that were shielded behind crystal clear glasses, the dirty blond hair that was always so soft and well kept except for one little curl, and the feel of Alfred's soft hands within his own.  
The cabbie pulled to a stop in the driveway, brakes squeaking slightly. Britain tipped the driver, and waved farewell.  
He approached the door quietly, gripping the bouquet of flowers in his hand tight. Arthur took in a deep breath, and entered their home.

The smell -even after all these years- was the same, apple brown sugar, Alfred's favorite candle. Laughter sounded upstairs.  
Arthur smiled, and tiptoed up the stairs to their old room. The blonde resisted the urge to call out Alfred's name. No, he wanted to surprise the cerulean-eyed man. There was more laughter; it was America, he could tell by the signature bounce of a childish giggle within his love's voice that came from across the hall. Arthur sped up his pace, smile brightening.  
How excite Alfred will be! He could imagine already the mixture of happiness and shock and relief on the blonde male's face.  
Arthur opened the door.

"Alfred, I'm—…"  
Two heads emerged from beneath the covers. One was the cerulean eyed, dirty blonde he loved… the other was a bleached blond woman with chocolate orbs.  
Emerald hues tore their way to Alfred's face, who was paralyzed in shock.  
Oh, the shock was there, by God Almighty it was.  
Britain blinked, letting the bouquet fall from his grasp.  
"Arthur… I…"

Britain cut him off. "No. Just… it's over. We're done, America."  
With that, Britain turned and wheeled around, rushing out of their- no, this was _Alfred's_- home, tears welling and spilling from their forest green owners.  
Alfred chased after him, crying out after Arthur, "No, please! Arthur, I'm sorry! Please come back!"  
Britain paid him no mind, running down the twisting, bumping dirt road, ignoring the pain in his legs and heart alike.

He ran for as long as his legs would allow. When England finally stopped, he collapsed from exhaustion and tears in a small town about 4 miles from that damned home.  
Britain hated him. He hated every single fiber of that cheating (**censor)**. He never wanted to see him again.

At the bar again.  
This was the 5th time this week. So far. And it was only Saturday.  
Arthur rested his chin on the counter, breathing in the distinct odor of the whiskey. He never really cared for the bitter flavour of beer, or the sweet tang of wine. All Arthur needed was the clear, burning flavour of the hard liquor sliding down his throat.

At this point, he no longer cared about himself.  
All he wanted was to forget Alfred.  
But… he couldn't.

Arthur knew deep down he would never forget him. And he still missed his former lover like crazy. Britain quickly downed the rest of his shot, eyes forming circles in the room. The Brit blinked rapidly, as if it would clear the haze of intoxication from his head. He stood, ready to leave, but the room- as if on cue- began to spin, causing Arthur to sit back down.

A hand was placed on his shoulder. England's thick brows furrowed, and he scowled as he turned. A pair of amber eyes shone in concern. "Are you alright, Arthur?" the Italian accent was heavy on the speaker's tongue. "Do you need a ride home?" The Brit blinked.  
"Feliciano…?" the words left his lips slurred, and sounded like "Felshano?"  
The Italian nodded. "Do you need a ride home?" he repeated.  
England faced his empty shot glass. How many had he had? Seven? Eight?  
"Shuure…. Feli…. Th-thank yooh…"  
Feliciano nodded, and helped the drunken Brit to his feet.

It was two in the morning, and Arthur still couldn't sleep. He growled under his breath, tossing the nearest thing to him against the wall. There was a shattering sound. This 'thing' happened to be the old picture of himself and Alfred when they were first dating. His former love had caught him off-guard, slinging his arm around the smaller nation. Britain's face was caught in a forever moment of protest.  
The picture, of course, shattered, the glass breaking and spilling out on the hardwood floor.  
Arthur eyed the bottle of whiskey that sat on the table across from him. He reached out and popped the top. "Hell with it…" he muttered. "It doesn't even matter, anymore…" Arthur raised the bottle to his lips, and took a long gulp, relishing the pain in his throat.

Alfred's face flashed in his mind.  
England nearly choked, sending spurts of alcohol from his mouth. No, he could NOT think of him now! He was just starting to feel the pain ebb away from his heart.  
But did he want to forget Alfred?

Another drink.

There was a piece of paper and a pen at the edge of the table. Arthur reached over, having a flash of lightheadedness, and grasped the items, pulling them over to where he sat. He scribbled quickly and in complete sobriety on the paper:  
**I'll love him till I die..**  
That was enough, and it was all he needed.  
Arthur took one last drink, and smiled.  
It was his turn to wait this time. And he would. Arthur Kirkland closed his glassy emerald eyes, and fell into the dizzying blackness.

It was Sunday afternoon.  
Feliciano Vargas-who had helped Britain back to his apartment the night before-knocked on the older man's door, coming to check on him.  
"Arthur? You awake?"

No answer.  
"Britain, you okay?" when the lack of reply came, Feli's voice rose. "Britain! Open up before I come in there!"  
The chestnut haired man blew a few stray strands of hair from his eyes. Reaching up to the top of the doorframe, he felt around until the key brushed his fingertips.  
"Ah-ha! Got you."

Feliciano unlocked the door, swinging it wide open. "Arthur? You in here?" he called out to the seemingly abandoned apartment.  
A patch of golden blonde hair that was illuminated by sunlight caught his eye from the kitchen table. Feli rushed over, shaking the Englishman to wake him.  
There wasn't so much as a groan in response.  
Feli began to feel his stomach knot up. Something wasn't right here. Even when Britain was hung over from the previous night, he would always be up by now!  
With shaky fingers, Feli pressed two fingers to the man's neck, fearing the worst.

No pulse.

Feliciano was in full panic mode. Tears welled in his hazel eyes. This wasn't real!  
Arthur couldn't be-  
He noticed a slip of paper grasped loosely in the Brit's hand. Closing his eyes, Feli grabbed the note, reading it carefully.  
"I'll love him… till I die… Oh, Arthur..." Feli moaned, dread and despair overtaking the whole of his mind. The brunette took Britain's cold head in his arms, cradling it gently, letting his tears fall into the soft golden locks of hair.  
"Why couldn't you two have made up?" Feliciano whispered, "It was a horrible mistake, I know, but why, Arthur? Why would you leave us like this? He misses you; he wanted you back so badly. How do you think Alfred will feel?"

The funeral was held the following Thursday. Arthur Kirkland was laid to rest under the same willow tree that he and Alfred first met. Nearly all of the countries were in attendance, each bidding a tearful goodbye to their dear friend.  
America was the only one who failed to show up, his grief leaving him unable to even leave his bed.

Alfred couldn't cry anymore. It was as if all his tears just dried up.  
This was his fault. Alfred was dead because of him. The blonde male thought of the funeral that was supposed to be today. He had got the call from his brother Matthew Sunday evening. The American had been so distraught and struck with grief that he hadn't been able to leave his bed for three days, only getting up once or twice to get a drink of water and a Tylenol. The days after had been a haze, Alfred only remembering bits and pieces. Not like there was anything to remember anyways.

He was so… **angry** with himself and God for taking Arthur away, and he was outright pissed at the world. Alfred sat up, wincing at his stiffness. There was a bottle of whiskey in the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he recalled, that he kept to help him through the toughest of times.  
The sandy-blonde bent down and opened up the drawer, the whiskey rolling to the front. It was about ¾ full; he never really drank much at a time, just enough to give him a buzz. He grabbed it, his fingers wrapping around the neck of the bottle, and popped the cap.  
What was the harm at this point?

********************  
Alfred told himself this for 7 months, getting drunk every night at the same bar Arthur did. The other countries whispered about him, he knew they did. But America no longer cared about them or their words. He didn't attend World Conferences anymore; they were better off without him anyways.  
All he wanted was his Arthur back.  
It surprised him, really. It didn't hurt him as much anymore to think of his past love, but he still missed that man like nothing else in the world.  
**Must** **be** **really** **saying** **something** **then,** **huh**?

He laid on his back in his bed, glass of bourbon in his palm. Cerulean eyes—once shiny and full of life, now dull—blinked wearily up at the ceiling. Alfred couldn't take this anymore. His guilt and shame and depression were bubbling over in his heart… he just couldn't take it.  
Another drink.

America turned on his side, facing his nightstand. The old lamp that had long ago stopped working still sat, as dead and motionless as his soul. He took note of the old picture that he never got rid of- a photo of himself and Arthur just a few months prior to Britain's departure to war. The two were holding each other close, smiling brightly, a moment in time when neither of them couldn't be more ignorant to the world around them.  
Alfred managed to smile lightly, letting the happy memories of himself and Arthur flood his mind. A single tear slipped it's way down his cheek.

He reached for the picture with careful hands, and cradled it close to his chest.  
"Arthur… I never had the chance to say goodbye… or how sorry I am…" Alfred sobbed softly.  
He wanted Arthur back, holding him in his strong, loving arms. He wanted to be with his love again.  
"Arthur… my Arthur. I'm so sorry. Please…" he sniffed. "Please… let me be with you again…"  
The American closed his eyes, sighing deeply through the tears that had begun to fall.

Cerulean orbs blinked open. Something… didn't feel right…  
That was when Alfred noticed a soft light shining in the corner of his room.  
"Wh-what is that…?" he whispered to himself. It appeared as if a star had fallen right into his room.  
Britain's face emerged from the light, hand outstretched, smiling lovingly.  
"Come dance with me, Alfred!"  
And Alfred F. Jones followed his love into the light, where they danced happily together, forgiving each other for their mistakes and sins.

Two tombstones of polished granite sat beside the other, underneath the willow while the flowering blooms of spring fell from the trees around them.  
A name was marked on each.  
Arthur "Britain" Kirkland  
1066- 2012  
Alfred "America" F. Jones  
1607- 2013  
_La_ Fin

**So, please tell me what you think? I enjoy constructive criticism, and I'm aware that my idea is extremely unoriginal!**


End file.
